


Howl: An Mprov

by genee



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-13
Updated: 2003-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 19:04:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Chris has been known to howl at the stars, at the wind, at the clearest sunny skies</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Howl: An Mprov

  
Chris has been known to howl at the stars, at the wind, at the clearest sunny skies, but tonight the sky is dark and the moon is full and Chris howls like he means it, and he does. He howls, and the sound splits the night and melts his bones and lights his skin with pale fire. He howls, and he's reborn in blue-black fur, thick and shiny and poppyseed sweet, sniffing the air and marking his territory.

Chris howls, and he's invincible in this form, or damn close, and he loves it. Loves the power and the thrill and the sleek slide of a wolf in the night, muscle and bone and teeth and all the world before him, laid bare by the moon's light.

He tilts his muzzle, searching, needing, finding, and Chris howls his pleasure, howls his thanks to the gods of lycanthropy as he breaks into an easy trot. A stray cloud passes over the moon and he's running full out now, ears twitching as he follows the trail of hot green scent winding through backyard woods, his body aching for release.

His mate sleeps, a golden human radiating heat and lust and want and Chris launches himself through the open clearing and onto the porch, howling, painting the night raw with desire. Long fingers burrow in the thick fur of Chris's neck and his mate growls his own throaty need, low and rumbling, smooth cock thrusting a brutal rhythm against his belly, green eyes hungry for more.

Chris's teeth sink into soft flesh, pliant and arching beneath him, coppery fire burning over his tongue. He'll lick these new wounds softly at sunrise, soothing bruised skin with aloe fingers and warm kisses when they wake, but not now. Now, Chris's tongue is rough and his nails are black daggers, and his mate pants his name, over and over, bursts of wet heat soaking into his fur, rich scent flooding all around them. Chris bares his teeth to the heavens as he comes, buried deep inside his mate's body and howling at the moon.

\-- End --


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